A Case of Infinite Strangeness
by Pompey
Summary: An attempt to resurrect Holmes from his Reichenbach grave goes wrong, leaving Watson and Mycroft to deal with the fall-out. DONE!
1. Chapter 1

_"____Life__ is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent" – Case of Identity_

* * *

Dusk had fallen and I was finishing up my notes from my last consultation. It is the only excuse I have to offer for not seeing the figure slip into my examining room. He did it silently, in fact, and it was only the faint smell that made me look up. In broad daylight the sight before me would have been horrific. By candlelight, it was the stuff of nightmares.

I could not repress a cry of terror and leapt back out of my chair. I could feel the wall pressed against my back and a cold sweat beaded on my brow. There was no where else I could flee. Fortunately, the figure seemed to have no interest in approaching me. We stared at each other in silence. For my part, I clung desperately to my sanity.

I had, in my wildest dreams, imagined that Holmes was alive, that my closest friend would somehow return from Reichenbach Falls. I had not, however, imagined this -- Sherlock Holmes resurrected from the grave . . . but not as Lazarus, untouched and uncorrupted, or even as Mary Shelley's Frankenstein monster, piece-meal but still whole.

Then the monstrous situation, incredibly, grew worse. Those rotted, decaying lips parted and slurred out my name. It was Holmes's voice but terrible, distorted, almost gurgling. He slowly, almost hesitantly, stretched out a hand towards me. It was still long, white, and thin but the fingertips were darkened and strips of flesh were missing. I must have fainted at that point and when I awoke, the dreadful specter was gone.

I scrambled to my feet. Not much time had passed, I could see. I would not have believe that my imagination was capable of conjuring such horror but that I had hallucinated was a far more acceptable than the idea that Holmes had come back from the grave a year after his death.

With shaking hands I poured myself a brandy I could scarcely drink for trembling. Madness may be preferable but it was a fate I had begun to fear ever since Mary's death last month. Grief could warp and twist minds, I knew. I would simply have to wait and see if it grew worse. If it did . . . I took a hearty gulp of my drink. I would cross that particular bridge when I came to it.

I replaced the empty glass with a heavy thunk and in doing so nearly missed the knock on my front door. I started violently and could not repress a shiver of fear. Then I pulled myself together and strode towards the sound with perhaps more bravado than the action warranted.

To my abject relief the man who stood there wielded nothing more dangerous than a telegram. A late-night messenger was odd; I was even more puzzled to see that it was from Mycroft Holmes and that he was requesting my presence at his home immediately.

A frightening thought flitted through my mind and I dismissed it before it had a chance to solidify. I summoned a cab as quickly as was possible, taking my doctor's bag with me, but my feeling of unease followed. Though Mycroft's window I saw a dull light escaping around the curtains. He was waiting for me then.

My ring was answered by the maid who showed me to the study. The door was shut tight and when the maid knocked timidly on it and announced me, the gruffness of Mycroft's reply was clear even through the wood. Rather than open the door, the maid bobbed a curtsey at me and left.

Thoroughly perplexed, I opened the door myself. The scent of strong tobacco assaulted me. Beneath it, there was a strange, sweetish odor that was not entirely pleasant. Mycroft was seated behind his desk, a troubled expression on his corpulent features. As the door opened his eyes were as sharp and glittering as his late brother's had been when investigating a particularly interesting case. Then, when he saw it was only I, he sat back and relaxed.

"Doctor," he said by way of greeting, "pray take a seat." There was but a single light in the room and the shadows in the corners did nothing to ease my trepidation. Self-consciously I accepted the offered chair and dropped my bag on the floor near my feet.

Mycroft observed me to a degree that unnerved me further. "Doctor, this evening there was an occurrence."

I admit I jumped. How in the world could he possibly have known about my hallucination? Mycroft was a master of observation and deduction, certainly, but what possible clues could my appearance or demeanor have given him? "An occurrence?" I repeated weakly.

Grey eyes bored into me. "One that I do not have the professional capacity to handle."

"And you believe I do." My brief lapse into insanity not even an hour before must have coincided with whatever incident Mycroft required my assistance for. "It is of a medical nature, then?

He nodded slowly. "Of sorts," he answered cryptically. His gaze darted to a corner behind me and when I turned to see what had arrested his attention, I perceived a figure in the darkness. To my horror, I recognized it without hesitation.

"Wah-shun," Holmes rasped out again.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

"I thought that was Kensington mud on Sherlock's boots," Mycroft commented when I did not bolt from the room immediately. "Unfortunately my London geology has grown a trifle rusty over the past few years. I am pleased to see I was right."

I had no answer to make. Holmes had shuffled forward a step or two and now he stood swaying faintly. Again I could detect the cloying smell of decay and understood the reason for the strong tobacco odor that hung in the air. Masking one disagreeable scent with a stronger one was an effective if temporary solution.

For a long while we three said not a word. Then Mycroft cleared his throat once and spoke quietly. "I imagine, Doctor, that you have some questions. I cannot promise I have all the answers but I do have some plausible theories."

Plausible theory was enough for me, if it addressed how Sherlock Holmes came to be in this state almost a year to the day after his death. "What happened?" I asked finally.

"Beginning chronologically, a week or so after my brother and Professor Moriarty went over Reichenbach Falls I was approached by the wife of visiting dignitary from Haiti. She offered her condolences most sincerely. It seemed she was thoroughly enraptured by those two mysteries of Sherlock's you wrote up before his death."

I refrained from wincing with an effort. I knew perfectly well Holmes's opinion of my "romantic fiction," as he had called _A Study in Scarlet_ and _The Sign of the Four._ Nevertheless, I could think of no more fitting tribute to his memory than to continue publishing accounts of his cases. What I had not considered was the possibility that Mycroft Holmes might take exception to his brother being used so casually in popular literature. In retrospect, it was unforgivably callous of me.

Fortunately he did not look put out in the slightest by my liberties as he continued. "I suspect the lady was also enraptured by Sherlock himself or else she would never have . . . well. There I enter the realm of speculation. The fact of the matter is that she told me it was a great wrong for Sherlock Holmes to have perished and that, with my permission, she would remedy it."

" 'Remedy it'?" I echoed.

"The lady's words, to the letter," Mycroft confirmed. "At time I took it be some dialectic idiom that translated poorly into English, perhaps referencing to prayer or to some memorial. I told her she had my permission to do as she wished."

"She meant to bring him back from the dead," said I, numbed by the horror of it. "But . . . how?"

"And there again I have naught but theory. I have recently taken to researching the cultures and traditions of Haiti and have found this." He put before me a library edition of _Voodooism and the Negroid Religions_ by Wilhelm Eckermann. Neither the author nor the subject was familiar to me although the stark silver lettering against the dull black leather took on an ominous cast.

"Are you suggesting the dignitary's wife performed some sort of ritual that can raise the dead?" I hazarded slowly.

"The book does indicate that such rituals exist in the Haitian sub-cultures," he admitted. "Allegedly the dead body is infused with life but remains devoid of personality and spirit. Frankly I am of the opinion that the victim in question is merely comatose and is roused by whatever herbs and potions the ritual uses. Naturally the person would be dazed and confused upon awakening."

"I do not think this instance quite matches your opinion," I contradicted in as reasonable a tone I could muster.

"I concur. The evidence is . . . irrefutable."

"Have you any idea why she would do this – why she would condemn a man she supposedly admired to such a hellish half-existence?" That, I felt, was the crux of the matter. I should not wish such a fate on even Moriarty, though it was he who was responsible for the circumstances of Holmes's death.

Mycroft sighed and tapped a thick finger on the black book. "I do not believe she meant for this to be the outcome. There is a similar ritual Eckermann hints at where the body is reunited with the soul so that the person is essentially whole and alive once again. He is maddeningly vague on the details."

"If that is the ritual the lady was attempting, something must have gone wrong."

"I think that is likely."

"Can we not ask the lady herself?"

"Unfortunately that is not possible. Shortly after our conversation she left for Haiti aboard the _Regalo_."

It took me a moment to recall the fate of that ship. "It went down somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. All hands were lost," I reported flatly.

Mycroft nodded. "If the lady was indeed performing a ritual to raise Sherlock from the grave while aboard the ship, it's likely the storm and subsequent sinking assured that the ritual went unfinished. "

At last I saw a faint ray of hope in this nightmare. "Could we finish the ritual?"

"That is my ultimate goal and I am taking the necessary steps. However, the immediate concern is maintenance."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

Mycroft raised his eyes to the figure of his brother and then looked back to me. "Sherlock regained life in Switzerland. He has spent the past year journeying back to London, mostly by foot. He arrived on my doorstep only a fortnight ago. The physical condition of his body, as you can see, is deplorable. I need to know if it is possible to keep him from losing any more ground until we can restore him to full health."

I hesitated. "That will require a full examination, and even then I cannot be certain anything can be done."

"But at least we will know the full extent of the damage," replied Mycroft quietly.

I looked back at my friend, who had not moved from his position. He met my gaze unblinkingly – but then, how could a man blink when he had only remnants of eyelids left? I repressed a shudder and steeled my nerve. Not a day went by that I didn't curse myself for having left Holmes alone at Reichenbach, never mind that I had been tricked. I could not abandon my friend a second time.

"I shall need more light," I said at last.


	3. Chapter 3

"Of course." Mycroft hefted his bulk from the chair and raised the gas.

In retrospect, both Mycroft and I accepted with remarkable rapidity the possibility that a voodoo ritual had brought Holmes back to life (or at least back to some form of existence.) As he said, however, the evidence supporting the theory was "irrefutable." Holmes's own maxim that "once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth" was forefront in my mind. It was impossible to think Holmes had not died, not given the state of him now. I had thought it was impossible for the dead to return to life; clearly that was not true. The only acceptable solution, then, was that there was indeed a way to revive a dead body.

I was less matter-of-fact and accepting of the task that had been laid before me. I am certainly no stranger to autopsies or corpses; the war and the occasional case of Holmes's had seen to that. Even the concept of examining someone I knew did not give me much pause. The biggest obstacle facing me was coming to terms with treating a friend's corpse that could respond as one still alive. For his sake, as well as mine, I would have to put aside all emotions and strive for absolute objectivity.

With that thought, I set my teeth and went about my task.

A cursory observation tested my mettle right from the beginning. The skin itself was utterly white with patches of black mold or mildew and hung, more often than not, in shreds. I kept my touch as delicate as possible so as to keep the skin in place and not allow it to slough off. What struck me as being of interest, apart from the animation of the corpse himself, was that the appearance of the skin was concurrent with the appearance of a human body after being submerged in cold water for a week or two. It certainly fit the timeframe Mycroft had put forth concerning the Haitian lady.

The joints had sustained the worst harm – abraded down to bone in some places. The feet were especially bad off in this respect. That he could keep any balance whatsoever on those stubs was an exercise in defying physics. The head, too, had taken several blows and knocks that were still almost as fresh as if they had been inflicted yesterday. What remained of his eyes had turned a filmy white, blotting out the grey the irises had been. Small pieces of flesh were missing from his lips and ears and an unpleasant musty smell came from the adipose that had formed from the body fat. Clearly, his body had lost its ability to heal and regenerate new tissue.

He had no pulse, which came as no real surprise to me. Nor did he breathe, except to speak. I had already observed that his words were halting; it could be due to brain damage or to difficulties in controlling his diaphragm and lungs while speaking, or it might be a combination of both.

Reflexes were nil, and Holmes answered to the negative when I asked him if experienced pain. I was glad of that. I could not imagine the agony such a condition would cause if the nervous system were functioning normally. My opinion only increased when he revealed rudimentary splints bound around his right thigh and right shoulder. Once removed, it was obvious why they were so necessary. The bones of each limb had been shattered; without the splints normal movement was, if not impossible, immensely difficult. I rebound the splints, more tightly than I would have usually, but I did not have worry about cutting off circulation.

On the other hand, the lack of a functioning nervous system was detrimental to the overall maintenance of his body. Without pain, a man does not notice he has done himself an injury. And if an injury goes unnoticed, it also goes untreated. Case in point, much of the damage he had sustained suggested he had dragged himself across the countryside without regard for its well-being. Sherlock Holmes was no more concerned about the health of his body now that it was dead than he had been when he was alive.

That brought me to my final concern. I had no way of knowing how traumatized his brain tissue was – short of prying open his skull, which I was loath to do -- and that was perhaps the worst of all. Injuries to the brain were tricky things at best. Even a simple concussion can have far-reaching effects. I shuddered to think of what two weeks of death with exposure to all forms of pathogens would bring about. Holmes had always prided himself upon his cognitive abilities; I had noted that within the first few months of sharing rooms with him. Without his faculties for observation and deduction, he simply was not Sherlock Holmes, private consulting detective.

And to think I had chided him on risking damage through his use of cocaine and morphine. I cleared my throat harshly to combat a rising laugh born of hysteria.

There was no use in fretting over problems that were beyond my control. Rather, I should focus my attentions on what Mycroft had requested: maintenance. The first step would be to assure that Holmes not lose any more tissue to the natural ravages of time and use. When all was said and done, the body before me was a corpse.

Formaldehyde and arsenic, those staples of the dissection room, sprang readily to mind. Unfortunately, they were also toxic to living tissue. That could become a serious concern when, or if, Mycroft was able to finish the ritual and Holmes's body fully returned to life. No, whatever preservatives we used had to be non-hazardous to living tissue.

This led me to the unappetizing train of thought of food preservation. Salts, strong acids, and smoke were the usual methods. If Holmes could inhale, he could continue to smoke. That devilishly strong shag he had preferred in life would be ideal for that; it would also help mask the smell of decomposition, should he continue to stay in Mycroft's study. The study itself would have to be kept as dry and cool as possible; heat and damp were the natural allies of rot.

Salt water would destroy bacteria and mold, and draw out additional moisture from his tissues, especially if consumed orally. Holmes would be terribly dehydrated after the ritual's completion but I felt it was a risk worth taking. Vinegar or citrus juice would be too strong for the delicate state of the organs. Strongly brewed teas high in tannins might suffice without causing further damage.

When it came to preserving the suppleness of the skin, I found myself at a loss. A wash made from salt and diluted vinegar would kill the mold spots; perhaps using oil would keep the skin supple, as one might oil leather. _Oh, marvelous_, observed an impish, deprecating voice in the back of my mind. _Oil, vinegar, and salt. Add some hot-house lettuce and he could serve as a French salad. _

Hastily I turned another hysterical laugh into a strangled sort of snort and relayed my opinions to Mycroft before I could make any more inappropriate forays into humor. He nodded thoughtfully at my assessment of his brother's condition and my proposed treatments.

"It will not be easy keeping the study cool and dry with summer approaching but I see no hardship with the rest of it," said he. "I daresay Sherlock may even enjoy the freedom to smoke again." We both turned to look at Holmes, who merely looked at us as though he had not heard a word.

I packed up my instruments in silence and prepared to leave. It was galling to depart without closure though I knew that to be a long time in coming. Mycroft saw me to the door, where he bad me pause a moment.

"If it is no great imposition," he said cautiously, "I should like to you stop by on occasion to check on Sherlock. Until I can find the particulars of the ritual and put them into effect."

"Of course," I agreed. "It's no imposition whatsoever. May I ask, though, why you came to me? I work as a G.P.; there are physicians who are far more qualified than I to treat your brother." I did not voice my concerns that I might fail Holmes with my lack of knowledge or experience. No doubt he perceived what I did not say regardless.

"Yes, I know," said Mycroft bluntly, "but you are also his friend, and the one doctor he told me he has any confidence in. It was you he sought out after I suggested he be seen by someone of the medical community. And whatever your shortcomings, I know you to be a trustworthy man. That is worth more to me than any number of degrees."


	4. Chapter 4

How I managed to sleep that night is still a mystery to me. I know that for several hours I lay wide awake, staring into the darkness of my bedroom and hardly daring to close my eyes even to blink. Terrible images continued to rise up unbidden that were hardly conducive to sleep. Yet sleep I did. I know this only because of the several times I jerked awake out of nightmares that all too closely resembled the real horrors that had entered my life.

As the thin, grey light of dawn crept through the window I could almost persuade myself that I had dreamt the entire ordeal of the previous night. But exhaustion, leaden limbs and gritty eyes were not enough to distract me from undeniable signs. My medical instruments were out where I had left them to dry after cleansing them thoroughly. There was the as-yet unwashed glass I had used for brandy left on the sideboard by the decanter. Mycroft's telegram sat half crumpled in my jacket pocket. Worst but most conclusive of all, there were minute remnants from the autopsical examination adhering to the elbows and cuffs of the shirt I had worn yesterday.

I felt my stomach roil as I contemplated this last piece of evidence and I thrust it from me hastily. Dwelling on Holmes's current, unnatural condition would do neither of us any good right now. Mycroft said he would investigate the necessary rituals and I had already done my part last night. Besides, we each had our professional duties to tend to. Late nights were hardly an excuse for a doctor to cancel his consultations and Whitehall was not likely to look kindly on an auditor who failed to show up because of a family emergency.

It was not until I had consumed two full cups of coffee that a sudden thought occurred to me: why would the wife of a visiting dignitary visit a mere Whitehall auditor? True, Mycroft Holmes was the brother of the world's foremost private consulting detective. But then, how could she have known Sherlock Holmes had a brother in the first place? I myself had thought him an orphan until seven years after we had taken rooms together. Doubtlessly there was a reasonable explanation but it was well beyond my poor cognitive abilities this morning.

So too was attending to patients, I fear. By sheer undeserved luck neither I nor my patients suffered any grievous mishaps though there were a few close calls. For one elderly woman with a cardiac murmur I wrote a prescription for strychnine that was well beyond a lethal dose before I realized my error and tore it up post-haste.

It was for this reason I drew my consultations hours to an early end and instead indulge in an hour of sleep. This was followed by a trip to the library where I discovered that every book conceivably linked to voodooism had been checked out already. This did not entirely surprise me. Having seen the depths of dedication shown by Sherlock Holmes to a chosen cause, it stood to reason his brother might share this tendency as they had shared other traits. I was only put out by my inability to help Mycroft in his research. But then, he had asked for my assistance in a medical capacity only. I had to content myself with that. And so, I turned my attention to various forms of food preservation and to the practice of leather-making.

Though Mycroft was not forth-coming with his progress, I saw no reason to be reticent in return. I revised my initial advice slightly and every third day I paid a visit to Pall Mall to check on Holmes's condition. While he did not improve, he did not seem to be deteriorating further. The salt water and vinegar washes and garlic rubs did eventually kill off the superficial black mold. Only then did I feel comfortable allowing preservation of his skin. My research showed me that tannic solutions would not be sufficient in reversing rot or in maintaining suppleness; reluctantly I determined it would have to be an emulsion of steer or porcine brain followed by a firm massage with tallow. It was a messy, tedious, and repulsive business but it was working.

Fortunately the teas were working also. To do any good, the leaves had to be stewed until the oils floated on the surface. The result was a brew so strong Mrs. Hudson would have tossed it into the gutter without a second thought. But it did its job. The scent of decay dwindled and what remained was masked by Holmes's continued use of shag tobacco. I could not discern if the smoke was fulfilling its intended role but if nothing else, it might help Holmes reconnect to his previous life.

In the meantime, we waited for Mycroft to make a breakthrough in the ritual. A fortnight went by and then another. Then another. Summer waxed hotter and hotter and I increased my visits to every two days as a precaution.

Finally one evening as the summer solstice approached, Mycroft sent me a telegram requesting my presence. Worried that something might have happened to Holmes, I rushed to Pall Mall with my medical bag firmly in hand.

To my astonishment, Mycroft himself met me at the door with a thin, worn dressing gown thrown over his shirt and trousers. Never had I seen him in such casual attire. Nor had I seen him look so grim save for that night in May when he had first asked my help.

"What has happened?" I gasped.

"I believe I am ready to perform the ritual," said he.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft's announcement was uttered in so forbidding a tone that my initial excitement faded rapidly. "Isn't that good news?" I faltered.

"Only if all goes well." Impossibly, his voice grew darker yet.

"Do you anticipate that it will not?"

"I anticipate nothing. I only know that what I wish to happen is not the same as what might happen. You are here as a precaution against disaster."

"I see." Dwelling on any hurt or fear caused by his blunt explanation would do none of us any good. "What is it you require?"

Mycroft sighed heavily. "Follow me, please, and I will explain."

He led me not to his study but down the back stairway to a storage area in the basement beneath the rooms of the flat. Despite being underground, I was struck by the lack of must and dirt. It appeared that the walls and floor had been scrubbed and polished. By the light of a few candles scattered about I saw that Holmes was already there, standing passively next to a wooden pole that was near his height. The ground was hard-packed earth and yet the pole had somehow been driven into it.

Behind Holmes and the pole was an altar that appeared to have been fashioned from a battered steamer trunk. Unlike the rest of the room, it could not have been dingier. Upon it lay a tattered, moth-eaten length of black cloth. Next to the altar were two boxes, the contents of which I could not identify in the dim light.

"Do you speak Spanish?" Mycroft asked abruptly.

"No, not a word."

"French then?"

I paused to consider. "Only a little conversational French and not very well. It's been many years since I was last in a classroom."

"A little might be enough. I think it shall be more of a _patois_ anyway."

"What shall? What does this ritual entail?" I realized my voice was rising in both pitch and volume and I hastened to modulate it. "What should we expect?"

"Forgive me, Doctor; I have been under some strain and forgot you have not been privy to my research. Allow me to explain thing systematically." From the first box Mycroft removed a handful of black candles, a bottle of strong liquor, a small metal canister that rattled at the slightest movement, a purple silk scarf, and a thick sheaf of paper. These he arranged on the altar as he spoke.

"I have already spent two hours cleansing this area both literally and psychically. I shall have to repeat an abbreviated version since I left the room to greet you. The ritual begins with a salutation to the major players of the Voodoo spirit world. Traditionally this is done in a language that is based on an archaic form of French; I am of the hope that the modern version of that tongue will suffice. Once this accomplished, the petitions may be begin."

From the second box came a container of a lady's white powder, a pair of dark lens glasses, a bottle of some sort of spirits, a small box of what smelled like the most potent Indian curry spice to ever assault my nose, a straight cane, a black top hat, a few cigars, and a plate of cold beef.

"Petitions are made to the, for lack of a better word, demigods of the Haitian religion, never to the Bon Dieux, the one great god. There are many of these demigods, each one with his – or her – own sphere of influence. Each one has specific preferences. These secondary articles are meant to draw a particular demigod or spirit to the person conducting the ritual. I should warn you, it does not always work. Sometimes the spirit that is summoned is not who or what arrives. And not all are benevolent or peaceful. There is a flask of salt water in which rue has been steeped in the event of a violent appearance. It will be your job to use it in the event it is needed."

I found I had to swallow hard as I nodded. "I understand. Which demigod to you mean to summon?"

"One of the Ghede, the guardians of the dead. I thought they might be the best starting point when trying to reunite a body with a soul. The Ghede are a boisterous, bawdy lot with an inappropriate sense of humor but they are harmless. More importantly, they never lie.

"There is one more warning I must give you, Doctor. The spirit may manifest itself through possession."

"Possession," I echoed uneasily. "Is that common?"

"I don't know," replied Mycroft shortly, "but I prefer to be unnecessarily prepared than caught off-guard. If I am possessed, it will be up to you to make the request."

"What is the request?"

"The practitioners of voodoo believe that there are two forces within every living person: the _gwon bon ange_ and the _ti bon ange_." I recalled enough schoolroom French to translate "bon ange" as "good angel." The two prefixes were quite beyond me but I did not wish to interrupt.

Mycroft continued. "The former is the greater life force, that which gives existence. The latter is the essence of the individual, the personality. I believe the initial ritual restored the _gwon bon ange_ to Sherlock but was interrupted before our Haitian lady could also restore his _ti bon ange_. Our request is that this second life force be returned to him. Have you any questions?"

I did have questions, too many to voice. Primary among them was an overwhelming desire to demand what the devil he thought we were doing, meddling with heaven only knew what. What was a flask of salt water in the face of possession by a malevolent spirit? What if the result was a situation worse than what we already had? Then I looked at Holmes, swaying slightly on his damaged wrecks of feet and staring blankly with white-fogged eyes. His skin had been artificially darkened and hardened by the tanning solution, all the more horrible where the skin was in ruins. His brother was willing to risk body, mind, spirit, and reputation for him. How could I, who had left him to his death, abandon the quest now?

"No, no questions," said I.

* * *

SOURCES:

_The Haitian Vodou Handbook_ by Kenaz Filan

_Voodoo Rituals: A User's Guide _by Heike Owusa

_Vodou Shaman: The Haitian Way of Healing and Power_ by Ross Heaven

A/N: _No offense is meant to any practitioners of Vodou. I'm trying to portray the religion in a respectful and (mostly) accurate manner while taking into account the prejudices and misconceptions of late 19th Century English society. (For example, the Lwa are more like angels or saints than demigods but it's unlikely that a Western writer of the era would make that distinction.)_

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

It is here I must adopt a considerable amount of discretion and decline to describe the details of the voodoo ritual. There are a few reasons for this. The first is ethical: I have no desire to provide the necessary information that would enable others to perform their own rituals. The second is practical: I did not understand more than one word out of twenty. Schoolroom French and medical Latin failed me utterly when attempting to understand that strange _patois_ that Mycroft read from the sheaf of papers to the rhythm set by the metal rattle.

What I do recall was that a great portion sounded repetitive and I realized after a time that it was an address of sorts given to various entities. Then, after perhaps an hour of this, the items meant to draw the Ghede were arranged on the makeshift altar excepting the white lady's powder. This he used to draw an intricate, somewhat morbid pattern on the earthen floor. That completed, he poured the curry spice into the bottle of liquor. Mycroft continued speaking in the _patois_, his tone commanding yet imploring.

Suddenly the words choked off. His body jerked and twitched as though he were in the grip of a _grand_ _mal_ seizure. I stood frozen by indecision. I could not doubt that this was some form of possession but without knowing if it was a spirit we sought or one we did not, I did not dare interfere. My hand tightened on the flask of salt water in anticipation nevertheless.

Mycroft staggered to the altar and fumbled for the spiced liquor. Before my astonished eyes, he poured a dram or so into his cupped hand and splashed it into his face. I expected a roar of pain. Instead, gave a sigh of contentment and splashed another dram into his eyes as though it were water. Then he snatched up the dark tinted glasses, tore the end off one of the cigars with his teeth and spat the end into a far corner, and placed the cigar between his teeth.

"Have ye a light then?" Mycroft demanded in a reedy, thick Irish accent. Numbly I fumbled for my cigarette lighter and snapped it open. He applied the cigar to the light, drew lustily upon it, and sent a rush of smoke into my face.

"You're Irish," was all I could think to say.

He caught up the cane and twirled it jauntily. "The devil ye say! Wha's wrong then, think yerself too good to have dealings with an Irishman?"

"No, not at all!" I protested hastily. "But I was under the impression the Ghede were Haitian or French."

"_French_!" he hooted derisively. The next few comments he made explained that it is the manner of death rather than nationality that creates a Ghede but I shall not repeat them for modesty's sake. Suffice to say, whatever spirit was possessing Mycroft had an inappropriate sense of humor that would more than have fit in Her Majesty's army. Nor would he let up until my cheeks were burning with embarrassment and I was smiling despite myself.

He grinned at his success and took a healthy swig of the spiced liquor. "That's better now, much better! A good party needs some spirit, says I. Ho, there! Why so stiff, man?"

Mycroft, or rather, the spirit, had caught sight of Holmes still standing passively despite the proceedings. Holmes made no indication that he heard a thing. Nor did he make a move as Mycroft circled about him, examining him.

"Stiff indeed. Man's got no little good angel," said he in the most serious tone he had adopted yet. "What do think yer at, walking about without? Tain't right, sir, not one bit."

"We know," I put in. "Can you help us restore it to him?"

Mycroft turned sharply in my direction. "So it's a favor ye're wanting. But ye're forgetting yer manners, me fine laddie. A gentleman does nay invite a guest in to make demands of him. It's a social call we'll be havin' first. Eh?" He offered the curry-infused liquor to me and would not accept any declination.

I took the smallest sip I dared. Even so, my mouth and throat erupted with fiery pain, so much so that I reached for the flask of salt water out of sheer desperation.

"What have ye there?" Mycroft demanded. "Come on, then, man, don't be holdin' out on yer guest!" Before I could stammer out a protest the flask was snatched from my hand and he took a hearty gulp of it. But no sooner had the liquid touched his lips that he spat it out in a misty spray. Wiping his mouth in disgust, he stomped across the room, snarling words I could only assume were curses. Surreptitiously I retrieve the flask and re-pocketed it.

Suddenly Mycroft stumbled and grasped the pole to keep from falling. "Remember," he ordered, pointing weakly at me, "I'll help ye if ye wish it. But we'll have our social call first. Eh?" Then his grip let go entirely and he slid to the floor.

I rushed over, unsure of what I would find. To my unspeakable relief, Mycroft groaned and closely rose to his knees. "Doctor?" he called in a raspy voice. "Did it work?"

"Well," I began. But Mycroft had already turned to look for his brother. Those great shoulders slumped for a second at the sight of Holmes and he laboriously got to his feet.

"I'm sorry," I said inadequately and I offered him my hand. It was the very least I could do.

Politely Mycroft allowed me to assist him. The great disappointment he must have felt was nowhere to be seen. Instead his face was composed but of the sort that takes a great effort to put forth. "Thank you, Doctor," Mycroft said calmly. "And now, perhaps you would be so kind as to catch me up to recent events."

****

With a heavy sigh I set about applying the tanning solution to Holmes's skin yet again. Without the hoped-for cure tonight, we had little choice but to continue maintenance. I could only hope another ritual would prove successful and soon.

Suddenly Holmes's right hand struck out like a serpent and fastened upon my wrist. I started violently. He had always been a remarkably strong man and neither death nor undeath had changed that. The same could not be said about his mind. I could not be completely certain he would not decide to turn violent. If he did, I had no hope of fighting back; he was still stronger than I and he would not feel any injury I could inflict in self-defense.

But then, Holmes had never shown so much interest in his surroundings since his return and so I held perfectly still in anticipation of what was to come.

"Wat-son," he forced out, apparently taking extraordinary pains to enunciate.

"Yes?"

His brow furrowed slightly and he drew two deliberate breaths. I could all but hear his mind struggling to obey his desire to speak. "I . . . not . . . right."

"Not right about what, Holmes?" I asked.

"No." He shook his head slowly but dramatically. "I . . . " He scowled fiercely and the hand on my wrist tightened painfully as his other hand clenched in a fist. Then his grip lessened somewhat.

"Life," Holmes rasped finally. "Death. Life right. Death right." He placed his other hand against his breast and in his agitation he drew a shallow breath between every other word. "Not life. Not death. Not right. Wat-sun. Not right. I -- not -- right!"

I felt my own breath catch at the pain in those strained, simple words. "I know, Holmes," I replied gently. "I know. And I know we've been unsuccessful so far. But we shall try again. Do not lose hope."

"Wat-son." He stared intently at me, not even attempting to blink nor to release me. "If – fail . . . if – cannot – help . . . " He stopped, his mouth working as he sought to form the word. "K-kill. Me."

"Holmes," I whispered in horror.

His grip tightened again until I nearly cried out with pain. "If – fail – kill – me. Swear. Swear!"

"Holmes, you're hurting my wrist," I gasped as I felt the bones begin to grind against each other.

My friend looked at his hand as if he had forgotten it belonged to him. Then he splayed out his fingers like a starfish and he took two steps away from me. "Wat-son. If – fail – kill – me. Please?"

I massaged my wrist gingerly while I considered his request. Holmes's near inability to communicate had given me a false hope that he was unaware of his own condition. I no longer had that luxury. And if he was aware enough to understand his existence, I had to believe he was aware enough to think through his request before making it. Nor did I have the security of falling back on my Hippocratic Oath which prevented me from taking a life, for what Holmes had could not rightly be called life. It was an unnatural existence and I could not be so cruel as to condemn him to that existence forever.

"Very well, Holmes," I said softly. "I swear it."

******

SOURCES:

_The Haitian Vodou Handbook_ by Kenaz Filan

_Voodoo Rituals: A User's Guide _ by Heike Owusa

_Vodou Shaman: The Haitian Way of Healing and Power_ by Ross Heaven

A/N: _Once again, no offense is meant to any practitioners of Vodou. I've never seen this sort of ritual personally so I'm stuck drawing from books. (BTW, to give you an idea of a Ghede's sense of humor, just think male fourteen-year old class cut-up. Without a detention for him to be sent to.) _


	7. Chapter 7

I did not have a chance to tell Mycroft of the promise his brother had extracted from me. The time it took me to tend to Holmes was equal to the time it took Mycroft to clear the basement of the signs of the ritual. When he returned he brushed aside my queries after his well-being. Instead, he insisted we focus our attentions on how to provide a more hospitable environment for the Irish Ghede, should he – or it – decide to return. If we could add some homey touches, our supernatural friend might feel more inclined to help us.

Mycroft grilled me on every aspect of the Irish Ghede that I could recall and on even more on those I could not recall. Very likely had our positions been reversed he would have deduced the spirit's name, town of origin, and food preferences. As it was, he drew more information from me than I would have thought possible. For example, based on my imitation of the accent, Mycroft determined the spirit had once hailed from around Galway.

"I must confess," he commented at the end of our interview, "I had not anticipated this turn of events. Of course, there is no reason why a loa must be of Haitian or French or perhaps even Spanish descent but certain prejudices are compelling. Well, the lesson is learned. Leave the details to me, Doctor, and I would be much obliged if you would return in two days' time. Come, let me show you out."

I glanced back at Holmes as I left. He was as impassive and as motionless as ever. Whatever spark had prompted the impassioned speech seemed to have dimmed once more. It did not matter. I could still hear those hoarse, desperate syllables ringing in my ears. If we had to perform this eldritch ritual a hundred times before we succeeded, we would.

* * *

I noted a few dramatic changes in the ritual tools the second time around. Though the tinted glasses and cane remained, the curried liquor had given way to a smooth whisky we had flavored with freshly cracked black pepper. The cold beef was now accompanied by steaming jacket potatoes. The box of lady's face powder had been replaced by pulverized chalk. And, as Mycroft created the design on the floor once again, I though I saw the distinctive shape of a Celtic cross amongst the other symbols and lines.

This time, when convulsions overtook the large man, I was prepared. The moment he started groping for the dark glasses I re-opened the whisky and pushed forward the plate of beef and potatoes. True to form, the Ghede was most interested in the alcohol. He took several hearty gulps of it straight from the bottle before replacing on the altar with a thump.

"Ah, now that is a proper dram!" he exclaimed in satisfaction. "And hot tatties!" Heedless of the steam still rising, he grasped one of the potatoes eagerly. "But is there no butter, then?"

"I . . . don't believe so," I hesitated. I could not recall butter being among the ritual tools and I did not want to risk a trip to the kitchen at the moment. "There is some salt if you like."

My answer was a dark look. "Salt for the living and clay for the dead," he said grimly between bites. "It's been many a year since I had meself a hot tattie and don't think I don't appreciate it. But next time ye'll be remembering there's naught like a bit of fresh butter to bring out the flavor of a potato."

I smiled with a patient affability I did not truly feel and pushed a cigar towards him. "Certainly." Just like an exuberant child, the Ghede pounced upon the cigar and tore the end off again with his teeth, freely expectorating it across the room. I had the lighter waiting for him when he turned back.

He gave a deep, contented sigh. "I see ye and me horse have taken some pains this time."

"Horse?"

He waved a hand to indicate Mycroft's body. "He's a cozy ride, this horse. Plenty of breadth to carry soul. Or two," he added with a wink.

That was news to me. "Is – he – with you?" Mycroft had had no memories of his first possession and I had not given much thought as to why.

I was not sure how much of a comfort it was when the Ghede shook his head and lazily blew out a stream of smoke. "Nay, 'tis only old Pól here now. Ah, but don't be worrying. Yer friend'll return just as he did before and none the worse for wear for me." He gave me a somewhat salacious wink but I was too distracted to take much note of it.

"Pól. Is that your name?"

"Aye, as it was my father's and his father's before him. Who might ye be?"

"Dr. John Watson." I offered my hand and though Pól had to shift his cigar, he took it.

"A physician then? What might a physician be doing mucking about with the dead? Making a confession? Making amends for some mishap? Like with yer other friend there?"

I looked over at Holmes. "He is the brother of . . . err, your horse. And he is my friend. As for what we are doing, you are quite right. We are trying to make amends."

"What did ye do to him?" Pól sounded genuinely angry and I felt the hairs along my arms prickle unpleasantly. The spirit had, so far, done nothing to cause harm to any of us but clearly it was best not to tempt fate -- or Ghedes -- in that regard.

"We did nothing," I protested truthfully and went on to explain the unfortunate story while Pól listened intently .

"Women and ships," he proclaimed sagely. "Disaster a-brewin' and no mistake. But if I mark ye right, yer friend passed on more than a year and a day ago."

"Yes, going on fifteen months."

"Bad, very bad!" murmured Pól. "His soul's been kept from the Dark Waters for far too long. Ye'll have had yer share of misfortune then."

I looked down at the gold ring still on the fourth finger of my left hand. I had not had the heart to move it even though the year of mourning was past. "You might say that," I agreed quietly.

Pól nodded. "That's his influence. Unhappy spirits means unhappy living."

"No!" I whispered fiercely, too upset to speak any louder. "It was not his doing! I cannot believe that. He would not have taken them from me so cruelly!"

"My and aren't we the learned one!" mocked my companion. "Why, ye must know more about the dead than the dead themselves. I tell ye, man, yer friend's wandering soul is what's been ailing ye."

I remained unconvinced but arguing with Pól further would only waste time. "Do you know how we can stop his soul from wandering and return it to his body?"

Whatever his other failings, Pól did not stay piqued longer than a second or two. He drew thoughtfully upon his cigar and blew out the smoke leisurely. "There's a way to make certain the soul departs the body after death and goes to the Dark Waters. _D__essounin_, the frog-eaters call it. I've not heard of pulling it back."

"Then you can't help us?"

"Nay, not I."

A despairing sigh escaped me and I allowed my head to fall into my hands. We had tried so hard and all for naught. We could try this ritual again and again and fail each time. How long could we continue before we finally acknowledged that failure was inevitable? And then there was that accursed promise Holmes had wrenched from me. I did not know if I could bear to go through with it but I did not know if I could forgive myself if I did not.

"Ah, don't take on so, Doctor!" Pól called cheerfully. "I said 'not I'."

I looked up. "If not you, then who?"

He shrugged simply. "Well, why not yer fine Haitian lady? She's dead too."

* * *

SOURCES:

_The Haitian Vodou Handbook_ by Kenaz Filan

_Voodoo Rituals: A User's Guide _by Heike Owusa

_Vodou Shaman: The Haitian Way of Healing and Power_ by Ross Heaven

A/N: _Yet again, no offense is meant to any practitioners of Vodou. (Yes, I'm well aware it goes against just about all Vodou beliefs that a soul can be restored to its original body. But this is fiction and I started the story before I started the research.)_


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft blinked once, the only crack in his façade of implacability. "I am a fool," he said at last. "I should have thought of summoning the lady's spirit long before now. What was it our Irish friend wanted in return for helping us find her?"

"One baked potato placed on the altar at least once a day. With butter," I added with special emphasis.

"It is a small price to pay. Did he say how long it would take him to find her?"

"No, although he did suggest that we contact him in a week."

Mycroft considered this. "That does not give us much time to learn of and obtain the lady's favored objects. Provided, of course, that she is now a Loa or a Ghede."

"What if she is not?" I asked.

"Then we shall alter our plans. In the meantime, I should not wish to keep you from your livelihood any longer lest your patients take their business elsewhere."

A gracious dismissal is still a dismissal but I did not argue. Nor did I ask, at this time, how he could possibly find out such inherently personal details about the deceased wife of an ambassador. It seemed an exercise in futility, to say nothing of arousing suspicion. I doubted anyone would guess our activities but for all I knew, raising the dead might be common in Haiti.

Whatever else I had doubts about, Mycroft was correct about my practice. I had not been neglecting it in the past two months but neither had I been as attentive as I might have been. And I daresay Jackson and Anstruther were growing a little weary of taking my patients whilst I was away yet again because of Holmes. Of course, they could not know that and I was not about to enlighten them.

I continued to tend to Holmes as time slid into July. Now that his skin was essentially leather, the key was to keep it and the joints supple and pliable. I still worried about the state of his organs but there was little I could do that was not invasive. And I dared not attempt any surgery when Holmes still lacked the ability to heal. For one, it might cause irreparable damage and finally kill him. For another, it might not be enough to kill him and he would be forced to go about with naught but catgut sutures keeping his viscera in place, even as his right thigh and right shoulder required splinting to hold the broken bones together.

A week later, as agreed, we summoned Pól again. The Irish Ghede thought he might be close but not knowing the lady's name, he could not be positive. With Mycroft's preparations, I was able to give him not only the name of the ambassador's late wife but also her photograph and a description of her character. Pól pocketed the picture and asked that we try again in a week. Then, after partaking of his potato with the ubiquitous butter, several cigars, and enough liquor to fell a mortal man, he departed. So did the photograph, even though I had watched it go into Mycroft's right jacket pocket and there was no way it could have slipped out or fallen through a hole.

Mycroft was oddly put out by its disappearance. "Potatoes are one thing but that photograph was not my property," he growled. "And of course we cannot be sure that he will bring it back. Confound it! I've traded enough favors as it is."

"For what?" I asked, without thinking.

He glowered in my direction though not necessarily at me. "Information." It would take someone far more dense than I to misunderstand that clipped tone. I held my peace save for offering to help him clear the area of the debris.

The next time I saw the basement, it showed the clear influence of Mycroft's information. There was a second altar draped with a length of clean white linen. In each corner were red and blue candles and the air was heavy with the scent of orchids and oranges. There was also the scent of hot baked potato and butter – Pól's payment resting on a plate on the first altar, upon which were the usual purple and black candles, bottle of peppered whisky, and plenty of cigars.

Quietly Mycroft handed me a small sheaf of paper. The first page held a strange hieroglyphic, half stylized swirls much reminiscent of the Art Nouveau movement and half crude, childish scrawling. "What is this?"

"As best as I could determine, that is the veve to summon our lady." When I looked at him in surprise, he met my gaze steadily. "I shall be completely honest with you, Doctor. I haven't the faintest idea how tonight will play out. It may be that I will be able to summon her. It may be that that task will fall to you. Perhaps nothing whatsoever will happen. Perhaps what comes to us will not be her. We must be prepared for anything."

I swallowed hard but nodded. So far we had been lucky and I knew it full well. Instead of Pól, we could have been visited by some malevolent entity bent on causing misfortune. We ran that same risk tonight. The flask of salt water and rue seemed an even more paltry weapon in the face of such uncertainty. I felt my pulse beat out a rhythm that was far quicker than the one Mycroft set with the metal rattle as he began intoning in archaic French.

I glanced over at Holmes, standing ever still and seemingly unaware. After how many attempts would he remind me of my promise? At what point ought we give it up as a lost cause? So caught up was I in these thoughts that I scarcely paid attention when Pól manifested.

He seemed inordinately pleased with himself although he would have, as he put it, his "social call" before getting down to business. And so I played as good a host as I could, putting aside my impatience until the buttered potato, several cigars, and approximately half the bottle of peppered whisky had vanished.

"Ah! I nearly forgot -- I've something for ye," Pól said at last, reaching into the right jacket pocket. He drew out the photograph whose disappearance had caused Mycroft such grief. He crossed over to the new altar and placed it in the center of the white cloth, then turned to me with a broad, self-satisfied grin.

"I've found her for ye. And she's been longin' for a chance to finish what she left undone."

"But will she come?" I demanded.

"To be sure she will!" retorted he. "In fact . . . I do be thinkin' . . . she's here."

He pointed at the photograph and instinctively I turned to look. As I examined the face of the lady, I felt an odd sort of pressure creeping over the back of my head. Suddenly I found myself on the ground, blinking in surprise and confusion. The candles were burnt nearly to their holders but I could not place how much time had passed.

As I shifted I was able to see Mycroft a little ways off, gripping Holmes's shoulders and staring into his brother's face with a gaze that might have burned right through him. Unfortunately I could not see much of Holmes. "Did it work?" I called urgently.

Mycroft's head jerked in my direction. "Doctor? Thank God! Quickly, man, I don't know if – "

Without warning Holmes's knees buckled and Mycroft was forced to catch him by the elbows to keep him upright. But no sooner had the larger man done so than my friend's head flung backward and he made a noise that made the hairs on the back of my neck raise. It was a scream of agony but one forced through dry, petrified vocal cords that could only rattle and twang. Nor did it stop. Even when Holmes wrenched himself out of his brother's grip and crumpled to the floor those painful, stunted screams went on.

******

SOURCES:

_The Haitian Vodou Handbook_ by Kenaz Filan

_Voodoo Rituals: A User's Guide _ by Heike Owusa

_Vodou Shaman: The Haitian Way of Healing and Power_ by Ross Heaven

A/N: _Yet again, no offense is meant to any practitioners of Vodou. _


	9. Chapter 9

_Three months later . . . I finally get around to addressing a minor plot hole and working on the next chapter. No promises as to timeline but I swear this story_ will _be finished_.

* * *

The only silver lining that I could see was that if Holmes could feel pain enough to scream it was clear that at least his nervous system was repaired enough to conduct sensations. Far more crucial at the moment, he could feel enough pain to warrant screaming. I remembered the relief I had felt during Holmes's first exam when he said he was in no pain; I could not imagine then the agony his injuries would cause. I could imagine it now, all too clearly.

"My bag, quickly!" I ordered, then paused. Morphine would be of no use if Holmes did not yet have a heartbeat to circulate the drug through his body. But Mycroft was gone up the stairs with astonishing speed before I could call him back.

Tentatively I felt for a pulse along the jugular vein and found one. It was slower and weaker than I would have liked but that it was there at all was a vast improvement over the past few months. The drawback to this was that his blood could flow freely through the various wounds. Already the soft house slippers Mycroft had put on him were growing crimson, as were the splints and rough bandages I had put around his shattered right shoulder and thigh. I was no detective but even I could deduce what had happened to cause Holmes to collapse as he had: upon fully returning to life, he had no longer been able to stand on the tattered stubs of his feet and when Mycroft moved to break his fall, he had wrenched Holmes's broken shoulder. Then there was what must be devastating thirst from prolonged and deliberate dehydration. I could only be thankful we had foregone formaldehyde and arsenic.

The only water I had at hand was full of salt; I could not give him a mouthful of that. Nor could I ease his pain until Mycroft returned with my supplies. The best I could do was seize the linen cloth from the second altar and try to stem the worst of the bleeding. That, and brush away the curious steaks of dirt on his face and hands until I saw his torn fingertips were also starting to bleed. By then the blood was mingling with dirt and creating a sticky sort of mud I did not dare use salt water to wash away. Holmes took no notice of me or my meager ministrations, too distracted by his pain to answer my calls.

By the time Mycroft reappeared, Holmes had dwindled in desperate, ragged gasps that were no less terrible in their own way than the screams. I struggled for a time to find a spot in his vein that had not been ravaged by either death or old puncture scars. At last I was able to make the injection successfully though it would take some time for the narcotic to take effect. Meanwhile I bandaged his fingers and feet, unwilling to do more until I was sure his pain was lessened enough to tolerate more drastic treatment.

"Is there a room upstairs we can put him in?" I asked after about ten minutes. Space, I knew, was not the only consideration. Somehow – I knew not how – the servants had been kept in ignorance of Holmes's presence. But a docile zombie essentially free of bodily needs was one thing; a badly injured man in need of careful tending was another.

"My bedroom," said Mycroft after a moment's consideration. "I trust we cannot have him walk? Then I hope Pól nor any other Ghede will be offended if we put this to another use." So saying, he pulled down the worn purple altar cloth to create a makeshift stretcher. Holmes made a worryingly light burden as we carried him; with each step I found myself second-guessing every course of treatment I had recommended.

At last we had him carefully laid out on Mycroft's bed and I could re-set and re-bind the broken bones. Neither of us could get Holmes to respond although his pulse and respiration were improved and his eyes, although glazed and half shut from the morphine, were already losing milky film of death. He swallowed a little of the water I offered but the danger of choking was too great to continue.

"What happened?" I asked once I was assured Holmes was resting as comfortably as possible. "Obviously the ritual worked but . . . . I suppose it was foolish of me but I had thought he would be restored to full health immediately."

Mycroft nodded. "No more foolish than I for I had the same idea. But there are more components to a man's being than just his soul or his body. There is also the n'ame, the spirit that allows the body to function during life. This passes into the earth upon death. It is not recallable."

"Is that why his body must heal on its own?" I asked.

"As I understand it, yes."

I hesitated, thinking aloud as I worked through my confusion. "But if the n'ame is not recallable, and it is what allows the body to function during life, then how is it possible for him to heal at all?"

"The lady in question endowed him with hers. That is, most likely, the disruption of natural law that resulted in the fatal Atlantic storm."

I shook my head, both in disbelief and at the meddling in unnatural affairs. "But how can you know that?"

"Because the lady in question told me. You were, as you may have already determined, possessed by her. I am sorry you were subjected to it unawares but it worked out for the best. We – that is, the lady and I – were able to converse rather well in French. Your efforts would have been hampered by the barrier of language had she possessed me instead. She also mentioned it was more fitting, since you are a healer. She likes you."

"I am glad to hear it," I faltered. Fortuitous or no, it is a disconcerting thing to know your spirit has been displaced by another within one's own body. And though I was quite sure the lady meant no harm, I was not anxious to repeat the experience.

Mycroft smiled understandingly. "I do not think she will be revisiting either of us. From what I could gather, she ought not to have begun the ritual in the first place. Doing so violated nearly every natural law known to man or spirit. She implied there would be punishment but I did not enquire. Oh! She did ask me to pass a message on to you: contrary to what Pól said, Sherlock was not responsible. She said you would understand her meaning."

"Yes. I do." I had never wavered in my conviction that Holmes had not brought about Mary's death but hearing my defense validated brought me no end of peace. "But what exactly did this unnatural ritual entail?"

"That, Doctor, I shall not tell you. If it were within my power, I should forget it entirely. As it is, I would prefer not to dwell on it." Mycroft shifted somewhat and I realized he meant to have me leave.

"Can you at least tell me how Holmes came to be covered in dirt?" If nothing else, I would have an answer to that puzzle.

The large man hesitated, gaze fixed upon Holmes upon the bed, heavily bandaged and sunk into a narcotic-induced haze. "In the death-ritual of dessounin," said he at last, "the ti-bon-ange part of the soul may be captured in a clay jar or vessel. My brother's body was the vessel; the dirt was meant to simulate the clay."

"I see." My curiosity was both peaked and deterred by this scant information but I also saw that pressing Mycroft further would yield nothing but irritation on his part. "I suppose, then, we should turn our attentions toward the future. Your brother will need a great deal of care for long time, I fear."

"Yes, I suspected as much. Can you determine if there will be any long-term repercussions?"

It was my turn to hesitate. "Given proper treatment, I shouldn't think there would be. The wounds seem fresh enough, relatively speaking."

"What of his mind?"

My heart sank. What of his mind indeed. Surely there had been head trauma in the fall. That, on top of physical death for a week and subsequent zombification for a year, made it impossible to tell. Perhaps Holmes would recover his intellect and personality through time. Perhaps he would have to be re-taught everything he had ever learned. And perhaps my friend had truly perished for good more than a year ago in Switzerland.

I shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."

* * *

SOURCES:

"Self-Ascription Without Qualia: A Case Study" by David Chalmers (available online as a pdf, check out pg 11 for the description of a dessounin)

_The Haitian Vodou Handbook_ by Kenaz Filan

_Voodoo Rituals: A User's Guide _by Heike Owusa

_Vodou Shaman: The Haitian Way of Healing and Power_ by Ross Heaven

A/N: _Yet again, no offense is meant to any practitioners of Vodou. _


	10. Chapter 10

_Five months later . . . an update! And it only took a few sound beatings with the occasional flogging to finish this chapter. Many, many apologies. Now, where were we? _

_The Haitian ambassador's wife took it upon herself to conduct a ritual to bring Sherlock Holmes back to life after Reichenbach. Unfortunately, she died in the middle of it and Holmes became an animated corpse. After months of dabbling in Vodou rituals, Mycroft and Watson (and the spirit of the ambassador's wife) were able to reunite Holmes's body with his souls. Or rather, what remained of his souls. Now they have an unanticipated problem on their hands: Holmes must heal after sustaining terrible injuries and decay . . . and so must his mind. _

* * *

1892

July slipped into August. Humidity pressed upon London in its typical stifling layers. It was no atmosphere for a patient recovering from painful, debilitating injuries but a holiday out of town was out of the question. Holmes's condition was still too fragile, both physically and mentally.

The broken bones and terrible lacerations were healing, albeit slowly. I had put in stitches where I could and trimmed away the leatherized skin that I could see would not recover. Fortunately there was no sign of infection; if there had been after all we had done I thought I might throw myself into the Thames in despair.

At times I felt close to it anyway. The idea of a patient suffering in quiet dignity, I have found, is too often a myth and Holmes had never had any patience for his own weakness or infirmity. That patience was non-existent now. He was obviously in constant pain and his communicative skills showed little improvement from his previous, zombified state. His eyesight, although growing better, was still poor, and he rarely spoke although he gestured. Worse, Holmes seemed perfectly aware there were large gaps in his cognitive abilities and his temper developed a hair-trigger.

We never knew what might set him off. One day he struggled to feed himself soup with a spoon and ended up weakly flinging the entire tray at the wall, but the next day meekly submitted to having someone feed him. Another time Mycroft gave him the first four digits of the Fibonacci sequence and Holmes patiently worked out as many digits as he could for the next hour, but later screamed outright in frustration and pounded his fists into his temples over his inability to read a _Times_ article.

I would often catch him staring his hands with a set face -- flexing his fingers slowly, running the tips along the blanket briskly, and finally working them oddly with strange little snaps and shivers. One day, I finally recognized he was miming the movements of playing the violin, and I had to turn away. But he never asked for his Stradivarius to practice on.

In early September I removed the casts from his right thigh and arm. The limbs were puckered and white from weeks of imprisonment within plaster. The joints had stiffened as well; Holmes protested immediately when I manipulated them. Nevertheless, I knew that if he did not start moving now he might never again be able to.

I worked with him to perform simple exercises to stave off muscle atrophy and increase flexibility. Mycroft and I took turns walking him about the room – or rather, helping him hobble about on feet that were somewhat deformed through heavy scarring. On the days he did not fight us, he was often too weak and irritable to finish the circuits.

Mycroft thought it might be beneficial for Holmes's mind and body to take him around London, and I saw no problem with that so long as we took precautions. No one could yet know that Sherlock Holmes was alive, and we could not overexpose him to chillier temperatures. Bundling him into layers of outerwear effectively addressed both concerns.

It soon became clear Holmes had all but lost his navigational skills. He who had once corrected a cabbie on the shortest route across London now could scarcely make his way from Baker Street to Marylebone without prompting. It was not for lacking of trying on Holmes's part. He tried to remember; his entire body would go rigid with the effort, eyes narrowed and hands clenched as if he could will the correct path to the forefront of his mind. Watching my friend give up in despair and look to me or to Mycroft for the answer broke me more than his initial death had.

It was the autumnal equinox, as I had reason to note, that Holmes finally questioned the point of his entire recuperation. It had been an especially trying day for everyone and culminated in our abandoning the evening walk due to an especially icy wind that set us all shivering. Holmes permitted me to help into bed with actually acknowledging my presence, silently docile. I took up the candle to leave him but before I could do so, he suddenly grasped my hand.

His grip was feeble. I could have shaken it off easily had I a mind to. It was his gaze that held me, as pleading and urgent as I have ever seen him. "Watson," he whispered roughly, "is this success?"

"I don't understand," I replied. "Is what success?"

He shook his head slowly and sadly. "I made you promise . . . wait, did I? Did I?"

"Promise? Promise what?" But no sooner had the words left my mouth than I recalled that desperate demand Holmes had made of me months before, when we were not certain any ritual would help him. I caught my breath with dawning horror. "Yes, I did promise you , Holmes, but surely you can't – "

"It's not success. But I release you from your promise," he interrupted and when I pressed him he merely rolled onto his freshly healed right side and refused to face me.

It was the longest and most complete conversation Holmes and I had had since May of '91 and it left me feeling devoid of all hope. I wondered how much blame for Holmes's present condition could be attributed to the original brain trauma and half-executed ritual, and how much to having absorbed a foreign n'ame. In the end I supposed it did not matter. The result was still the same. Day by day we went, never gaining any appreciable ground. And the longer we continued this way, the more certain I became that the Sherlock Holmes he had been was gone forever. Even he himself knew it. Yielding to sudden impulse, I drove my fist against the wall. A visible dent appeared beneath the wallpaper.

The force of the blow had been such that for a few moments I felt nothing but an ominous numbness. Then sharp, throbbing pain lanced through my hand and up my wrist. It was then that I noticed I had abraded my knuckles badly and was in danger of further defacing Mycroft's hallway by dripping blood on the carpeting. As it was, I would already have to apologize and offer to pay for repairs to the wall.

I turned to fetch my bag and was startled to see Mycroft standing behind me. "Any improvement?" he asked quietly.

"No. He is still the same."

"No, I was referring to you."

I looked at him in surprise. With all the worries we had with his brother, Mycroft did not need me adding to his troubles. "I'm fine."

"You're bleeding," retorted he, "and in the past three months you have never so much as raised your voice, let alone strike something." He shifted slightly, effectively blocking me from leaving the hallway.

"I think I may have fractured a metacarpal bone," I admitted sheepishly. It would have to be my right hand, of course.

He nodded and brought out the medical bag I had been after. "Next time, kick the baseboards. They are used to that sort of damage and are more forgiving on one's hands." I hazarded a look while he found me a bandage and saw that he was correct – there were nicks, gouges, and dents peppering the baseboards. I had yet to see Mycroft anything other than unflappable; now I knew why.

"I don't know that we can help him any more," I said at last. "And I think he's well aware of that."

Mycroft only sighed and neatly re-packed my bag. "Sherlock was always terribly impatient when it came to learning new skills and was forever setting himself impossible timelines. He nearly quit the violin after he failed to master it after only three days of playing. I am no expert in brain injuries but I think we ought to give him more time and stay the course."

"I agree," I answered, "but can we convince him of that?"

"We shall have to. There is no other recourse."

As it turned out, there was one other recourse that Holmes had in mind. The next morning, Mycroft woke to find the room was empty, his wallet had been emptied, and his brother nowhere to be found.


	11. Chapter 11

"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"

Mycroft looked at me curiously, no doubt hearing the frantic note in my voice. "I do not think Sherlock intends to cause himself harm. In addition to the two pounds, ten he took from my wallet, his coat and wrappings are gone."

"But he left no note, no word?"

"No. Before his death I might have been able to deduce precisely what he had in mind but . . . he has become a stranger now." As if embarrassed by this admission, Mycroft gave himself a little shake and any shadow of grief that touched his features vanished. "I have already set my agents out after him. They will find him."

"Your agents?"

Some expression I could not read flitted across his face. "There are men one might hire," said he carefully, "for the purpose of tracking down a person. They do not kill; they merely report back and detain their target if possible."

But already several points were connecting in my mind. "I mean no offense but how could a Whitehall auditor afford to hire such people? Even if you could, why refer to them as your agents rather than hired men? How could you have gained such personal and private information about the wife of the Haitian ambassador? And for that matter, why would the wife of the Haitian ambassador have sought you out at all, even if you are the brother of Sherlock Holmes?"

I stopped speaking, partially because I had run out of questions and partially because of Mycroft's look. It was calculating in an objective sort of way, as though I had told him there was a bomb in my pocket and it was up to him to determine how much of a threat I was. "Those are valid questions indeed," he remarked softly. "What can you deduce from them?"

Every nerve prickled unpleasantly. Clearly I had stumbled onto something I was never meant to understand. Having failed to curb my tongue when it was most prudent, I fell back on a stock reply used often with Holmes. "I can make nothing of it."

"No, Doctor, that won't do," Mycroft replied with a decisive shake of his head. "You have come too far to claim ignorance now. Rest assured, you're in no danger with me; speak freely."

Hesitantly, I spoke my thoughts aloud. "You do work in Whitehall but not as an auditor. You hold some government position of enough influence to merit meeting foreign dignitaries, and to send men after your brother at a moment's notice. Beyond that, I could not say."

"You are close enough," he smiled. "Only Sherlock, my superiors, and I know the full details. We are not sworn to secrecy but the fewer people who know, the better. I trust you will forgive if I do not elaborate upon what position it is that I hold. For your safety as well as mine."

"Of course." There was an undercurrent of warning beneath the kindly words. What I knew now of Mycroft's true career was enough. "But what of your brother?"

"As you have divined, I sent my agents after Sherlock as soon as I confirmed that he was gone. Their reports come directly to me and I shall keep you informed." I nodded and, hearing a dismissal, turned to go.

"Doctor."

I turned. "Yes?"

Mycroft drew a slow, deep breath and let it out before he spoke. "You appeared exceptionally worried when you arrived, especially about the possibility that Sherlock left to end his life. Why?"

It was my turn to take a deep breath. "A few months ago, before the ritual could be successfully completed, I made him a promise. He asked, in the event we could not help him, that we . . . we . . ."

"Kill him." The tone were flat, unemotive, and made the simple words so much starker.

"Yes. He was desperate enough that I promised. Last night, he said that he released me from the promise, but only after telling me he did not consider this a success."

"What were his exact words, last night and months ago?"

I related them, verbatim, and watched Mycroft's usually impassive face twist. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. At first I couldn't bear to and after the ritual was completed, it seemed pointless."

"I understand. However, I think we may put that particular concern to rest. Sherlock's mind may be damaged but even so, I cannot see him taking money and clothing with him if he were planning suicide."

I saw the logic in that and, despite an irrepressible fear that we had again misjudged badly, agreed. At any rate, there was nothing to do but let the agents do their work.

Mycroft's agents had followed Holmes's trail on that first day from Pall Mall to , and from there to . After that the reports grew muddled and contradictory. Holmes had been spotted in Whitechapel and Berkley Square, in Birmingham and Galway and Glasgow. Then witnesses came forth from Dover and Paris and Amsterdam. From there the sightings of him slowed to a trickle and finally ceased.

I wondered if Holmes hadn't recovered more of his faculties than we suspected and was leading his brother's agents on a merry chase across the world before shaking them off entirely. Then I thought back to that terrible shame on his face whenever he admitted defeat to us. I recalled the wrenching despair on the last night we spoke. I had been fooled by Holmes's performances in the past yet I could not but believe I had witnessed genuine emotion on those occasions. He had been miserable, of that I was convinced.

But where was he now? Had he found a way to heal all that had been damaged? Was he struggling, even now? Or was he permanently dead in some far-away land?

I completed my contract with _The Strand_ and immediately they offered me a second one. I could not in good conscience accept without consult Mycroft; he told me to do as I saw fit. For my part, I saw it as an opportunity to communicate with Holmes, no matter how long the chance. I chose to publish stories in which he had unmasked those who had gone into hiding and adopted new lives in case that was what he did; I wrote of his first cases to remind him of his beginnings as a private consulting detective; I wrote of his recovery after his illness in '87 to prove to him that he had overcome hardship before and of the Norbury case to show that it was all right to misjudge; I wrote of our first adventure with his brother; of my friend Phelps and the naval treaty. Finally, my contract at an end, I forced myself record the events at Reichenbach and what had led up to it.

Throughout it all, neither Mycroft nor I received any word from Holmes or from the odd agent still doggedly trying to find him. The world rang in the new year of 1894 but I drank my toast with a heavy heart. Sherlock Holmes had been gone for over fifteen months and the last sighting of him was nearly a year ago. I knew full well my friend could disappear entirely if he so chose. I could only hope someday he would choose to return.


	12. Chapter 12

The murder of the Honorable Ronald Adair captured the attention of the public at large. It captured mine as well, but for another reason. I knew with the whole of my being that Moran was responsible for Adair's death. It was just a matter of proving it. And if my own unofficial investigation was a trifle overzealous, as Lestrade implied that it was, I had my reasons.

Thanks to the trials of the late Professor Moriarty's minions, I recognized the name of Colonel Sebastian Moran as the right-hand man of that master criminal. He was also one of two agents who had been released for lack of hard evidence. The other had met with a rather mysterious if unlamented death. If Holmes had not found the proof to convict Moran then, then it was not likely my efforts would prove fruitful to that end now. Nevertheless, perhaps I could help see Adair's murder avenged and his killer punished.

I went so far as to testify at the inquest, for all the good it did. My theories, carefully thought-out as they were, did not impress the court. I did not press the issue and instead made my way across the Park into Oxford Street. There I saw a tall, thin man with coloured glasses, whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-clothes detective, pointing out some theory of his own. I got as near him as I could, given the crowd around him, but his observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew in some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed man, who had been behind me, ad I knocked down several books which he was carrying. I endeavoured to apologize but with a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

For a moment I stared after him. The old bibliophile struck me as vaguely familiar but I could not put my finger on why. Perhaps I had passed him before on my many trips to Park Lane. With my attention fixated on No. 427 Park Lane, I scarcely noticed anyone around me. I had nearly been run down by a carriage, so preoccupied was I by the mystery.

I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To my astonishment it was non eother than my strange old book collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them wedged under his right arm.

"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange, croaking voice with slight, odd pauses between the words.

I acknowledged that I was, all the while taking in his form and wracking my brain for his identity.

"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this house, as I cam hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books."

"You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May I ask how you knew who I was?"

"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure."

"Oh, that explains it," I exclaimed. "I thought you looked familiar."

The bibliophile started violently for no reason that I could fathom. "Maybe so, sir, maybe so. Do you collect yourself, then? Here's _British Birds_, and _Catullus_, and _The Holy War_ – a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on the second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet and stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement. Then I was charging around the desk to reassure myself that it was in fact Holmes, living and well once again.

"Holmes! Is it really you?" I could forgive the deception and the prolonged absence if only he had returned to himself.

"Steady on, Watson," said he but made no protest when I seized him by the sleeves and felt the thin, sinewy arms beneath. He was even thinner and keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face which told me that his life recently had not been a healthy one. When he gently detached my grip I felt the rough, irregular swirls of scar tissue on his fingertips.

"Holmes?" I could not help but notice his words were a trifle halting and his voice was more gravelly and rough than before.

He reached into an inner pocket of the bookseller's seedy frockcoat and, in his nonchalant manner of old, drew out a cheap, worn cigarette case that belied the quality of the tobacco within. He took one himself and offered the case to me. I declined but offered him a light, forgetting altogether that the lighter I carried was the silver one he had left at Reichenbach. Holmes went very still at the sight of it and I, uncertain of his reaction, did as well. After no more than a moment's hesitation, he accepted the light. Slowly I snapped it shut and replaced it in my pocket.

Holmes drew upon his cigarette and exhaled deeply. "Sit, Watson, please. We have much to discuss."

"We do indeed," I agreed softly. I returned to my chair and watched Holmes settle in opposite to me. The desk remained between us.

"I am glad to stretch myself," said he at length. "It is no joke when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end."

"But what prompted you to do so in the first place?"

Holmes sighed out a thin stream of smoke. "To answer that, I must go back a year and a half."

"When you left your brother's house."

"Taking with me only a coat, a hat, gloves, and all the money in Mycroft's wallet," he added. "You must understand, Watson, I knew that you both were trying your hardest to help me but I knew full well you would fail. It was not just the physical damage, you see, it was my mind."

"Yes, I know," I put in. "But we were addressing that –"

"No. You were not addressing it because it was beyond your scope, beyond both of you. The problem was not only what I could _not_ remember but what I _could_ remember. Watson, I remember everything; everything from the moment I went over the Falls with Moriarty to the moment I regained animation, and through to that ritual in Mycroft's basement. Do you understand?"

Slowly I said, "Holmes, do you mean to say you recall your death, and . . . and immediately after that?"

"I remember being dead, Watson, yes. And when I was in that weird, unnatural state bestowed upon me by the first unfinished ritual, part of me remained there in the world of the dead while part of me existed here. It was a kindness to fully restore me to life but it would have been an equal kindness to kill me. Anything would have been better than remaining as I was," he nearly spat out. "At any rate, fourteen months is a long time to be dead. When I came back to life I could scarcely believe it."

I found I had to swallow hard before I could speak, and then in only a murmur. "Holmes – "

"A part of me did not want to believe it," he continued softly as if he had not heard me. "To believe that I was alive again meant acknowledging all that had come before it, all of it. And the Sherlock Holmes of old could not do that. It was too much, too illogical . . . too impossible. And yet if I was ever to reclaim my identity, I would have to acknowledge and accept every aspect of what I had experienced. I could not do it on my own. Neither you nor Mycroft could help me, even if you had known my difficulty. And so I left to seek help."

"Without leaving any note," I could not help but interject.

"No," Holmes agreed gently. "Forgive me, my dear fellow, but I didn't see any point. I had no idea where I was headed. I did not know whom I sought. And there was a distinct possibility that I might kill myself. I simply didn't know what would become of me."

I shifted uneasily in my chair. "Well, I am heartily glad you did not choose the latter option, but how did you avoid Mycroft's agents?"

"He sent agents after me? Yes, of course he did; he's Mycroft." Holmes sighed and leaned backward. "I suppose I evaded them without realizing it. I do not mean to impune their skills; any agent working for Mycroft must first prove his salt. Speaking from personal experience, it is difficult to track a man who does not have a destination in mind."

"But where did you go?"

"I started by wandering about London. From there, I broadened my travels to the whole of the Island. Once I reached Dover, I made the inevitable move to the Continent. I circled about, sometimes retracing my steps, sometimes forging new paths. I went north into Scandinavia; I dipped southward into Africa and sprang up again on the east side of the Mediterranean. I made my way through Constantinople, and Afghanistan – " here his eyes flicked to mine for but a second – "Persia and Khartoum. Finally I ended up in Tibet and Lhassa."

Holmes puffed on the cigarette with what I thought was unwarranted violence. "I met the Dali Lama there. I found myself explaining to him the circumstances that had brought me to the monastery, and he permitted me to stay and learn from them.

"Silence was encouraged so as to induce introspection. It was a soothing atmosphere, akin to that of the Diogenes Club proper, but I was constantly active both physically and mentally. I learned a great deal, Watson, about myself and my philosophies. Eventually I was able to reconcile my experiences with my pursuit of rationality."

"How?" I asked hesitantly.

Holmes smiled to himself. "We know so little about life; how could we ever hope to understand death? Merely because we cannot logically explain some things at present does not mean we will not be able to do so in the future. So many branches of science have historically been shrouded in superstition and misunderstanding. However," he said sternly, "observation and deduction are still our best tools to understanding crime, for what one man invents another can discover. I mean to continue my work to that end, and I have work for us tonight, if you are amenable."

"Moran, you mean?" I hazarded.

My friend stared at me in such amazement that I could not help but laugh, and soon after he joined in. "Moran indeed, Watson. I see you have kept up with the matter of Park Lane. I myself read the news in France and I arrived in London just last night. I called upon Mycroft first to set in motion the necessary events, and then this morning I ventured to Baker Street as myself. I fear I threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics but it was an essential part of my plan. Now I come to you."

"Whatever aid you require of me, you shall have it."

Holmes smiled warmly at my passionate tone. "It is good of you to say so after all you have been through on my account. I cannot apologize or thank you enough."

"It is thanks enough to see you returned to yourself, and to London," I replied heartily, rising and walking around the desk. "As for the apologies, you needn't worry over that. I understand now why you did what you did."

"Then it will be like old times," Holmes proclaimed, and clapped me on the shoulder. "Again, I thank you," he added softly.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

FINALLY, finally finished! You see ? I swore I wouldn't leave this unfinished and I didn't.

I have no excuse to make. It was at least 90 percent sheer laziness on my part, and I humbly thank everyone who stuck with this – and me – for so long.

* * *

The capture and arrest of Colonel Sebastian Moran has been documented elsewhere, albeit altered by some creative liberties. For the most part it is an accurate account. Holmes's plan did involve setting a blind in the empty Camden house across from 221 Baker Street, using a bust to simulate himself. We secreted ourselves in the house and watched as Moran took aim with Van Herder's airgun, the very same as had murdered Adair.

I confess that when Moran sprang up after Holmes's tackle I was both surprised and alarmed. My friend had always been exceptionally strong but now he was easily overpowered by the elderly colonel to the point that Moran was able to half-throttle him. I did not hesitate to strike him on the head with the butt of my revolver with all of my strength. As soon as he went down I fell upon him, and took a fierce pleasure in keeping him down.

Soon the police were streaming in, Lestrade in the lead. Moran paid no attention to the men clapping irons on his wrists. His eyes were fixed upon Holmes's face with an expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended. "You fiend!" he muttered. "You diabolical fiend! You went over the falls; I watched you with my own eyes. How could you possibly have survived?"

Holmes did not deign to answer that. Instead, he contented himself with making introductions and needling the colonel who kept on muttering, "You diabolical fiend!" even as he was led away.

"Are you worried about what Moran might say?" I asked once we were back in Baker Street.

Holmes had thrown off the seedy frockcoat of the old bookseller and donned his old mouse-colored dressing gown that he removed from his effigy. "Not a bit. Anything he says about Reichenbach only strengths his ties with Moriarty, which he has been loath to do. Besides, who would believe him when I am plainly alive and well?" He flashed me a wry smile that I could not return.

"_Are_ you well?" I asked. The pallor and thinness was one thing but his scars and his speech were another. I had little doubt there were other, more detrimental changes I could not discern.

Holmes turned his attention to the mantle, looking over the bric-a-brac that littered it, from three year old correspondence still affixed to the wood with a dagger to slightly dusty tobacco still in the faded Persian slipper. He paused and picked up the morocco case that I had come to hate. He looked at it as though he had never seen it before, turning it over, snapping it open, and examining the syringe and bottle within.

"Here," said Holmes suddenly, offering me the case and all that it contained. "I neither need it nor want it now."

Slowly I took it and put it into my pocket without looking at it. "Thank you."

"I must ask something of you, Watson."

"Certainly, anything."

"Do not publish any more of our cases. I may recant in the future but until then you must not publish another word."

"If you wish it, Holmes, but why?"

My friend draped himself over his chair as bonelessly as a blanket. "I have moved well past my youthful desire for public laudation. My goals are more modest now. I should like to explore other mysteries of the world, other fields of study. Oh, I shall keep my hands in matters of mystery, but I suspect that there may come instances in which I shall find myself more inclined towards mercy than to cold justice. It would be more prudent not to advertise this to the police," he added wryly. "And there is one more thing I must add."

"What is that?"

"I have at times certain lapses in my faculties," Holmes said soberly. "They are not common. They are not severe. But they are most definitely noticeable, at least to me. Perhaps they will be to you as well. My reputation shall ever precede me, but it is a wise man that knows his limits. I plan to accept what work I can while I can. And when the times comes that I can no longer serve my fellow man with my brains, there will be a little cottage in the country waiting for me."

"You _have_ changed," I remarked, taken aback by both his candor and the unexpectedness of his plans.

"In some ways," he agreed, finally smiling. "I am certainly no longer the man who went over the Falls. But I hope I am a man improved by his experiences. Death and re-life have only served to increase my awareness of those interesting little problems which the complex life of London – and the world – so plentifully presents."


End file.
